The Faintest Hint of Gold
by Nuyaviel
Summary: Clarice has a boyfriend. Lecter watches from afar, interfering... if only with Clarice's mind...
1. cannibal in love?

DISCLAIMER: Neither Hannibal Lecter or Clarice Starling is mine. Unfortunately. They are a product of Thomas Harris' enviable imagination.

NOTE: This is an alternate ending to the book "Hannibal." I haven't watched any of the three movies. (No, I didn't land from Pluto recently. I'm a Martian, through and through.)

(Uh, I'm shitting you.)

Still, I wanted to write this… basically, in the book, Clarice and Hannibal had sex after eating Krendler's brain. And after that, they lived with each other in a mutually satisfying relationship. I think. But in this story, Clarice ran off after Hannibal was done making love to her. And now it's a year and a few months later.

----------------------------------------------------------------

CHAPTER ONE

(_cannibal in love_)

            Clarice Starling's hands were trembling. The morning sunlight shone on her as she in front of the newspaper stand, but the cold that swept over her prevented her from feeling any warmth.

            CANNIBAL IN LOVE?

            The heading, splashed boldly on the front page of the _National Tattler_, was the cause of her distress. She shoved a handful of money at the bored-looking newspaper vendor, snatched up the tabloid, and started striding away.

            She quickly skimmed through the article as she walked. Of course, the FBI had suspected for months that Hannibal Lecter was still in America. She had known for sure since she had received a letter in the mail from him, the only letter she had never let the FBI know about. She had received it exactly a year after the night Paul Krendler's brain capacity was reduced to that of a toddler's.

_Dear Clarice,_

_Have you ever considered why you ran away? The drugs I injected into you wore off as soon as I was done loving you for that simple statement you made about what, I still say, I gladly relinquished to Mischa. I watched you as you stood up from the bed. I watched you as you took your clothes and clumsily – a description I never thought I would apply to a person with your innate grace – put them on. I watched you as you stepped over to the door – hesitating, for the longest moment – and then ran off into the night. And you knew I was watching. Have you ever considered why I didn't stop you?_

_I am still in America. I won't be leaving. An you know why, Clarice, don't you?_

_It's because of your moment of hesitation. I am here because of it. You did not want to leave me. We will have to do something about your sense of duty to the FBI. They have done nothing to deserve it. _

_Or did you leave because of your father? He is dead, Clarice, and you must live for yourself, not for him. You do not need to live as what you once imagined him to be – a perfect cop._

_I will stay in America until I believe that you left me for yourself, because you wanted to...  or until something else entirely takes place._

_Yours,_

_Hannibal Lecter_

            That letter had caused her more than a few nights of restless sleep. But it had also forced her to accept a few things. One, her feelings for Hannibal Lecter went very much beyond those of an FBI agent for a vicious criminal. And two, Lecter's feelings for her went very much beyond those of a psychopathic serial killer for an agent of the law. She wasn't sure how she felt about that.

            And now, months after she had first stared at the familiar copperplate hand on that letter which she had been almost afraid to open, the media actually shared her certainty of Lecter's whereabouts.

            This was her first day back at work after a long vacation leave, which she had spent in Italy. Clarice knew how foolish a choice that had been, but some irresistible force drew her there. She had also made arrangements so that no one at home, not even Ardelia Mapp, could contact her. She had wanted time to think.

            The article was long and rambling. Apparently, a lot of people had seen a man with a close resemblance to the picture of Hannibal Lecter on wanted ads, and with a fine scar on his left hand, dining with a blonde woman that all the witnesses reverently lauded as 'beautiful,' 'stunning,' 'gorgeous.' The tabloid hadn't been able to name the blonde. And Lecter had apparently been seen exactly four times with this woman, in locations all over New York. In a short paragraph, the writer mentioned that the FBI were investigating this lead. In another, much longer paragraph, the writer speculated as to how the Beauty to Lecter's Beast – also known as the "Bride of Cannibal," but best known as the FBI "Death Angel" – Clarice Starling, would react.

            Clarice reacted by balling up the tabloid and tossing the damn thing into the nearest trash can. There was only one picture that the National Tattler managed to get a hold of: it showed the backs of two people, a man with sleek dark hair helping a curvaceous woman with blond hair into a nondescript black car. The coldness was spreading inside her, mixed with anger. Clarice knew who the man was. Would Hannibal Lecter really be careless with his freedom just to date some dumb blonde?

            In the back of her mind, Clarice recognized how irrational she was being. But she didn't care. Her anger at Lecter fueled her through the whispers at the FBI office, through the many copies of the tabloid most of her coworkers were holding, and into her desk. At least now there was a clue to the escaped killer's whereabouts. At least the Tattler hadn't posted a picture of her. At least…

For some reason, hot tears sprang to her eyes. She was horrified. She dashed them away just as the phone rang.

            Clarice took a few breaths to calm herself, then picked up the phone. "Hello?"

            "Sweetheart, this is Richard."

            At the sound of the deep, reassuring voice, something inside Clarice relaxed.

            She had been living with Richard Smith for a few months now. She met him at a bar a few weeks after receiving Lecter's letter, as she mulled over it and tried to find evidence within her to disprove everything he said. She had even been chugging down beer and flirting with everyone in sight, just to convince herself that she was tasteless, a woman of no style, someone who would never like a man like Hannibal Lecter, ever.

            But Richard had seen through her. He didn't know what was going on in her head, but he took her by the hand, firmly led her out into the parking lot (she hadn't fought back to continue reassuring herself that she was a woman without any class, but she had been reassured by the .45 strapped to her ankle), and told her, "Ma'am, I don't know who you are and what the hell is wrong with you, but you don't belong there. Go home. If you can't, I'll take you."

            She didn't love him. She didn't know why. But she definitely cared a lot for him. The fact that he was immensely attractive, with his brown hair and green eyes, didn't hurt. And now, she was living with him, she ate her meals with him, and she genuinely liked him. At first she had been reluctant to leave Ardelia Mapp, but she had virtually ordered her to go and live with the only man (besides Lecter, a devilish voice whispered in her head) that could make her happy. Richard was falling in love, both girls  could see that. Clarice didn't mind. She knew that if she was ever going to get over Lecter, Richard was the best way.

            They talked on the phone for a few minutes. He gently told her to ignore the _National _Tattler, told her that he didn't care about Lecter, and that he knew she didn't, either. Clarice didn't bother to correct him. He sensed her agitation over the subject, however, and switched topics to the vacation she had just had. When Clarice hung up, she was slightly comforted.

~~~~~^~*~~^~~~~~

            Hannibal Lecter's eyes were pinpoints of maroon light as he picked the lock of Richard Smith's house. He moved silently across the living room, towards a sofa near the sliding doors that led to a swimming pool owned by Clarice Starling's wealthy boyfriend.

            Lecter had felt a vindictive pleasure in making Clarice jealous, even if she didn't admit it to herself. He was annoyed with himself for sinking to the level of retribution-seeking fools, but he couldn't help himself. He had stalked Clarice and Richard on one too many candlelit dinners.

            The blonde was a prop, of course. She was also British, and she lived in the desolate countryside. Perfect for his purposes. He had made sure that she would be out of America before the _Tattler _published the article. He had also made arrangements to stay away from New York for the time being. Lecter had watched Clarice's face when she first saw the Tattler. He had been pleased at her obvious jealousy. But that vanished so quickly that he was left even more frustrated than before.

            Outside, he could hear them laughing. Her laughter was tentative, but it was real. The way Lecter fixed his stare on the wall in front of him as he listened would have unnerved anyone who could see him. At least Clarice didn't know he was here.

            "You've been acting strange, sweetheart," Richard mused. "Ever since you read that article about Hannibal Lecter."

            Lecter uncoiled silently from the sofa and wandered neared to the sliding doors to listen. Leaning against the wall, he waited for her reply.

"I'm sorry," she said simply.

Lecter peered outside, and wished he hadn't. They were snuggled up by the pool, sweetly, cozily, her head on his shoulder, their arms around each other. Richard's head rested against hers, and their feet swung gently in the pool, sending little ripples expanding across the clear waters.

            "Are you angry about the 'Death Angel' reference?" Richard asked.

            Clarice shook her head.

            "Did anyone at work give you any major trouble?"

            She shook her head again.

            "Does the serial killer matter to you?"

            The serial killer tensed, and peered once more outside. Again, he wished he hadn't. Now she was practically in Richard's lap, her head buried in his chest, and their feet were no longer swinging.

            "No," she said, her voice muffled by her boyfriend's chest.

            _Liar_, Lecter silently accused.

            Richard was less astute, but then, he didn't know of their relationship. He didn't know that his girlfriend and Hannibal Lecter had once had sex so hot that she left scratches on him. Didn't know that his girlfriend and Hannibal Lecter had once dined on the brains of Paul Krendler, who had treated Clarice horribly. 

            "What is it, then?"

            "Does it matter?"

            "Of course, sweetheart."

            "Clarice," she mumbled.

            Richard blinked. "Pardon?"

            Inside, the monster understood. She wanted Richard to stop calling her sweetheart, and start calling her Clarice. He stiffened, his heart thudding in his chest. Lecter had always called her Clarice. So she wasn't quite as over him as she would have Richard believe.

            "Nothing!" she nearly shrieked. "What I meant was that – Clarice – I wanted you to call me Clarice. But sweetheart's fine. Sweetheart, please stop asking me all these questions. I'm really tired. I'm tired."

            Richard was confused. But, as always, he conceded graciously. "A goodnight kiss, then –" and he added with a teasing laugh, " – Clarice."

            Lecter was tempted to rush out there and shove Richard Smith into the pool. An uncharacteristically barbarian approach, even for the cannibal.

            Then the rest of what Richard had said registered in his mind, and Lecter stifled a sigh.

            Sure enough, the figures of Clarice Starling and Richard Smith kissing reflected blurrily in the still rippling waters of the pool. He ground his teeth together. _Clarice._

            Hannibal Lecter closed his eyes. What he wanted was to go out there, rip the two of them apart, kill Richard, and give Clarice a kiss that would wipe away all traces of the one her boyfriend gave her. But he wouldn't do that, either. She had made her choice. It was time to learn how to live with it.

            Then he smiled to himself, despite his pain. Of course he wouldn't live with it. He was Hannibal Lecter, and he loved and was loved by his Clarice. Like hell he was going to live like this, apart from her, watching her being kissed by some other man.

            And, as the two of them finally broke apart and began walking towards the house, he slipped out of the room and into the night. 

----------------------------------------------------

A/N: Lecter is so OOC, I can't stand it! God. Anyway. Please R/R!!! ^_^


	2. hannibal lecter was here

CHAPTER TWO

(_hannibal lecter was here_)

            Hannibal Lecter did not want to murder Richard. Clarice would never forgive him.

            He stood still in his living quarters, which was too near the FBI Headquarters for his comfort, but he was confident in his own ability to evade the law. He had to get Clarice alone somehow while convincing her not to turn him in.

            His alter ego was Ken Davidson. He did not have a job beyond selling wines to foreign clients every now and then, which was simple enough. He simply found his customers, searched for the wines they liked, and sent them letters inviting them to buy from him. They usually did; he acquired only the best quality wine. And they paid a lot, not that he needed the money. Being a psychologist had been a lucrative profession.

            Lecter contemplated matters as he stared unmoving into his aquarium. The graceful sway of the fish through the clear waters of the large aquarium, tastefully decorated with stones and plants, soothed him. He often thought that the only things he enjoyed watching as much were Clarice's eyes – her eyes were often unfathomable pools that he longed to sink into.

An orange-gold fish was reflected in his maroon eyes as he gazed into the aquarium. He thought of Clarice. And hated the thought of her with Richard. Quietly, unexpectedly, never taking his eyes off the fish, he reached out and picked up the phone.

~~~~~^~~*~~^~~~~~

            Richard picked up the phone. "Hello?"

            "I would like to speak to Miss Clarice Starling."

            "Who is this?"

            The voice hesitated, then said, "Kenneth Patel."

            Richard grew instantly more alert. "Aren't you the editor of a newspaper?"

             "Yes. The _National Tattler_ is a long-standing rival of ours. They just don't understand good journalism. We have space in the Features section, and we thought we would get Miss Starling's side of the story."

            "Oh, all right. Excuse me." Richard covered the phone with one hand and called out, "Clarice, someone's on the phone for you."

            Clarice emerged from the kitchen, carrying a glass of water. "Who is it?"

            "See for yourself, sweetheart."

            Clarice rolled her eyes at him and took the phone. "Yes?"

            "Clarice."

            She froze. Then, deliberately, she hung up.

~~~~~^~~*~~^~~~~~

            Lecter's palm hit the aquarium with such force that it jolted and the waters sloshed. He should have disguised his voice.

            Now he had to erase all the leads to him. He swiftly headed for Richard's house. He hoped Clarice was too distraught to trace the phone call immediately.

            Lecter wasted no movements. He was inside Richard's house so smoothly it would have been easy to believe he owned the place. He saw Clarice hovering over the phone, her face tense, and he quickly removed himself from her line of sight.

            Pressed against the wall, he was quiet and almost invisible. His eyes darted to the phone, and traced the line of the cord from the phone perched on the living room table . . . to the floor where it had been hidden under the carpet . . . his eyes traced the line of the cord under the tasteful, luxurious carpet to a corner of the room . . . the cord traveled up the ceiling . . . and into the room he was in.

            Lecter smiled.

            Clarice sounded agitated. Richard was hovering over her, worried. "He said he was Kenneth Patel?" Her voice was strange.

            "That's the fifth time you asked me that."

            "He's the editor of a newspaper, right?"

            "I've answered that, too. The _Enquirer_."

            Lecter had slithered soundlessly over to the cord. His eyes glinted.

            "The _National Tattler _always makes fun of the _Enquirer_."

            "Patel and his staff have class, sweetheart. They never fight back. They always win anyway. More respectable, more copies sold, more – "

            "What does Hannibal Lecter want?" Clarice sounded frustrated.

            Richard placed a comforting arm around her. "If it was him, I think he wants to scare you." 

"_If it was him_?" Clarice snapped. "You think I wouldn't know his voice after – after all I went through with that criminal?"

Lecter's eyebrow rose as he worked soundlessly on the cord.

Richard's tone was soothing. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I believe you. Do you want to call the FBI?"

            For a prolonged moment, everything was silent. Everyone was still, save for Lecter, who was stealing out of the house as smoothly as he had come.

            "Fuck this fucking world!" Clarice yelled as she picked up the phone and heard no dial tone. Even from outside, Lecter could hear her. He watched with amusement from a window as Clarice grabbed the cord and followed its path through the open doorway to the next room, where the dark disappeared as Richard flicked on the light.

            Clarice looked down at the ripped phone cord. He knew she knew they would never trace the phone call.

            "Damn it!" Clarice swore again.

            Richard took her by the shoulders. "What is it?"

            She didn't answer for a moment. Then, slowly, she enunciated every syllable. "Hannibal Lecter was here. He was with us just now."

~~~~~^~~*~~^~~~~~

            Clarice decided not to tell the FBI about the incident. Richard supported her decision, as she had known he would.

            One, there was no way to prove that Lecter had even called her. She might just spark off more gossip to feed the media monster. Two, they wouldn't be able to trace the phone call anyway. Nothing could be done. And three, she hadn't been able to catch Lecter. That reeked of incompetence.

            But something made her uneasy. Counting the letter, that made it two times that Lecter had contacted her. A serial killer running loose had written her a letter and called her on the phone, and she hadn't told anyone in authority. If the FBI knew, they'd have her ass.

            It irked her. That night, she lay beside Richard and realized that Lecter had shown up barely twenty minutes after he had called and she had stood by the phone too shaken to think. It could only mean two things. Either Lecter had planned to call her and had gone to a nearby spot just to do it, or the call hadn't been planned and he lived nearby.

            She'd check it out tomorrow.

---------------------------------------------------------------

A/N: Sorry it took me so long to get this out. Life can be busy, can't it? Anyway. Review! ^_^


End file.
